The Shield Gallery was a long hall, so named because trophies won during tournaments in the nearby Tilt Yard had once hung there. No such chivalrous pursuits took place now, though — Chaloner thought there was more likely to be a tally of sexual conquests pinned to the walls.
The gallery was on the upper floor of an Elizabethan section of the palace, and at one end was a large, mullioned window that overlooked the river. On the ground floor, directly beneath the window, were the so-called Privy Stairs, which were basically a private wharf for the King and Queen. It was convenient for them to jump into a boat there, because the Queen’s quarters were through a door in the gallery’s northern end, while the King’s lay to the south. The gallery was handsomely appointed — its floor was tiled in black and white granite, and paintings by great masters hung along its length, interspersed with sculptures on plinths.
As it was so close to the royal apartments, the chamber was usually kept locked. Bulteel opened it with a key, and Chaloner saw Turner had not been exaggerating when he had mentioned a leaking roof: there were puddles on the floor and water-stains on the walls. There was no sign of the colonel, although there was a lot of noise coming from Her Majesty’s rooms — squeals, giggles and bantering conversation. The spy was impressed: it was not easy for a man to inveigle his way into that Holy of Holies. But there was work to be done, and Chaloner had more important concerns than Turner’s silver tongue. He turned his attention to the matter in hand.
‘The statue was there,’ he said, pointing to the one plinth that was bereft of its masterpiece.
Bulteel ran wistful fingers across the empty marble. ‘Bernini captured the old king’s likeness to perfection when he carved that bust. Did you know it was one of the pieces Cromwell hawked, because he needed money to pay off his army? You, in other words.’
Chaloner was taken aback by what sounded like an accusation. ‘Hardly! I fought in the wars, but was never in the peacetime militia — I was overseas by the time the old king’s goods were sold.’ He frowned. ‘I did not know you were a connoisseur of art.’
Bulteel shrugged. ‘You have never asked. But I do like sculpture. When the King decided to reassemble his late father’s collection, I was one of those employed to make a list of what had gone, so the commissioners would know what to hunt for. I hope you find the Bernini, because it would be a crying shame if that disappeared into some private vault.’
‘Yes, it would, so we had better get to work. The Shield Gallery has four doors: one leads to the Queen’s apartments; one leads to the King’s; the tiny one in the corner leads to a spiral staircase that exits into a lane — we just used it to come here; and the last one leads to the Privy Stairs and the river. All are locked at night. What is your theory about keys?’
‘There was no sign of forced entry, which means the culprit had one. The King rarely uses his door — you can see from here that it is currently blocked by a chest. By contrast, the Queen uses hers a lot, because she likes to walk in here if the weather is damp.’
‘You think the thief is one of her ladies-in-waiting?’ Chaloner was amused. ‘She must be a very hefty one, then, because those busts are heavy.’
‘You are mocking me,’ said Bulteel reproachfully. ‘I was going to say that the ladies can be eliminated as suspects, because they would have stolen something more easily portable.’
Chaloner inclined his head to accept his point. ‘I know the thief did not use the Privy Stairs door, because that was barred from the inside. So, we are left with the one that gives access to the lane. Who has a key to that? You do, for a start.’
Bulteel held it up. ‘It is the Earl’s, and one of my responsibilities is to keep it for him. It was a duty he wanted me to pass to Haddon, but I prevaricated for so long that he has forgotten about it.’
‘Who else?’ asked Chaloner, not very interested in Bulteel’s machinations to foil his rival.
‘And there is your problem. I made enquiries, and was told they were issued to at least forty nobles — women and men — at the Restoration. Brodrick has one, for example. Perhaps he stole the statue, and intends to make it look as though his cousin is the thief, as one of his pranks as Lord of Misrule.’
Chaloner was troubled, because it was exactly the kind of jape Brodrick might dream up. Unfortunately, what sounded like harmless fun might have devastating consequences, because the Earl’s detractors would use it to question his probity — and England would not want a Lord Chancellor with accusations of dishonesty hanging over his head.
‘Is that why you brought me here?’ he asked. ‘To tell me Brodrick is the guilty party?’
‘Actually, no. I brought you here because I wanted you to understand that the thief is either a courtier or a high-ranking, well-trusted servant. It will not be a common burglar or some lowly scullion. It means you need to be careful, because the culprit may be powerful enough to do you real harm as you close in on him.’
Chaloner was thoughtful as he left the Shield Gallery. He had known from the start that the theft was the work of someone familiar with the palace, but he had been working on the premise that it was some greedy nobody. Bulteel’s theory made sense, though, and he supposed he would have to tread warily from now on.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Bulteel, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Go to discuss the problem with an old friend.’
London had not fared well in the recent gales. Trees had blown over, and several had fallen on buildings and smashed through their roofs. Bits of twig and broken tile littered the ground, and people were struggling to repair the damage with hammers and nails. The rhythmic clatter could barely be heard over the noise of the street — iron-shod cartwheels rattling across cobbles, the insistent hollers of tradesmen, and the jangling peals of church bells. The dying wind could barely be heard, either, although it made the hanging signs above doorways swing violently enough to be unsafe, and played a dangerous game with the creaking branches of some elderly oaks.
Many folk had marked the Twelve Days of Christmas by tying wreaths of holly, bay and yew to their doors. Most had been torn away, and sat in sodden heaps in corners, or blocked the drains that ran down the sides of the main streets. With indefatigable spirit, children were collecting them together, shaking out the water and filth, and pinning them back up again. Their noisy antics brought back happy memories of Chaloner’s own boyhood in Buckinghamshire, making him smile.
He walked along The Strand, then up Chancery Lane until he reached the building known as the Rolls Gate, next to which stood Rider’s Coffee House. Rider’s was not the most comfortable of establishments, because it was poky, dimly lit and badly ventilated. It did, however, roast its beans without burning them, so the resulting potion was better than that served in most other venues.
Chaloner was not overly fond of the beverage that was so popular in the capital; he found it muddy, bitter and it made his heart pound when he drank too much of it. It was, however, better than tea, which he thought tasted of rotting vegetation. And tea was infinitely preferable to chocolate, which was just plain nasty, with its rank, oily consistency and acrid flavour. That day, though, it was not coffee he wanted in Rider’s, but the companionship of the only man in London he considered a true friend.
He smiled when he opened the door and saw John Thurloe sitting at a table near the back. The place was busy with black-garbed lawyers from the nearby courts, all perched on benches and puffing on pipes as they discussed religion, current affairs and whatever had been reported in the most recent newsbooks. The spy was greeted with the traditional coffee-house cry of ‘what news’ as he aimed for Thurloe, but shook his head apologetically to say he had none.